


this is our home, we just don't have a door

by snsk



Series: the undertow [2]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 09:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6560920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan entertains visitors, receives sufficient Vitamin C, and considers repainting his guest room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is our home, we just don't have a door

When Ryan woke up, Brendon was gone, only the phantom feeling of a warm pressure on his chest and the half-finished wine bottle to indicate he had even been here. When he got up, his back ached; he shook Dottie off his leg and headed upstairs. His phone had notifications, none of them he cared about; Ryan dumped it back on his bedside table and went back to sleep. He sent a text: [ _hey. Hope everything turns out ok. Here if you need anything_ ].

Brendon obviously did not, because he hadn’t replied by the time Ryan was rudely shaken three hours later by Alex; nor had he replied the day after, or Sunday, which was when the first of Ryan’s unexpected visitors arrived.

*******

Zack Hall pulled up in a red Bugatti, and said, immediately, upon spotting Ryan: “Ryan, you’re a train wreck.”

Ryan couldn’t disagree.

“Why is he doing this?” Zack asked, mostly to himself, as he got out of the car and leaned against it, showing no sign of wanting to go in. Good. He wasn’t invited, anyway. “What spell did you put on him, wench?”

Ryan didn’t know what ideas Zack had gotten into his head, actually, because Brendon didn’t seem to be doing anything involving Ryan right now. “Why is he fucking stupid?”

Ryan bristled at this. “ _Hey_ ,” he said.

Zack surveyed him for a long moment, then let out a long-suffering sigh. “Jesus,” he said. “You’re just as fucking gone. I swear, I’m going to fucking quit-”

Which was what he’d said after they’d done anything as a band, so Ryan didn’t feel too worried. He crossed his arms and tried to look all - firm, or something, and not helplessly worried when he said: “How is he?”

Zack rolled his eyes. “He’s figuring his _fucking_ life out, as well he should,” he said. “I’m leaving. I’ve seen enough.” He pointed a finger at Ryan as he left. “You got a long way to go, pal,” he yelled, and zoomed off.

So - normal Zack behaviour, then.

*******

Spencer arrived, and said: “Can’t believe I’ve never been.”

Ryan took him on a tour, and tried not to remember Brendon’s small smile upon first view of his guitar room. Spencer grinned at his guest bedroom mural. “Like you always wanted,” he said.

Ryan hadn’t been able to in his own house, of course, and Mama Smith had allowed him a lot of things, but painting on her walls hadn’t been one of them.

“Like I always wanted,” Ryan agreed. He was always thinking about finishing it, but he didn’t know. It was the freedom to do it that had soothed him, not the actual need to spray art onto his walls. Brendon found it creepy.

 _Like it’s watching me_ , he’d said, to which Ryan had replied, _it just wants the Ring_ , and Brendon had shook his head and grinned at the dumb reference.

They settled by the pool with Ribena and cashews. Spencer’s phone buzzed, and he texted out a reply.

“Linda,” he said, settling back lazily, eyes half-closed. “Says hi.”

“Hi back,” Ryan said, and watched Dottie entertain herself with dried leaves by the other side of the pool.

Spencer was quiet, and Ryan thought he’d dozed off, perhaps, but then he said: “Y’alright?”

Ryan took a moment to think about it. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good, then,” Spencer said. “Whatever happens though. You know I’m here.”

“I thought that was a given, Spence,” Ryan said. ”You can’t get rid of me, either.”

Spencer didn’t comment on the obvious relief in his voice. Instead, he said, meditatively: “You were always so fucked up over each other. It wasn’t normal.”

“I still am, Spence,” Ryan said, quiet.

“I know,” Spencer said, and he probably did. He’d known Ryan before Ryan had learned how to ride a bike. Ryan had studied for exams at his kitchen table and watched the leaves on the oak tree in the back yard turn orange through many, many autumns. It was the sort of thing that survived band breakups and picking sides and years of a distinct lack of communication.

He squinted an eye open, now. “I think you’re both a bit smarter about it, though. Hopefully.”

“Is this you giving me your blessing?” Ryan enquired.

“Hardly,” Spencer said. “You’re going to do it anyway, Ryan, you’ve never listened to me once in your life.”

He sounded pretty fond about it, actually.

*******

Brendon showed up at his door a week later. He was unshaven and greasy-haired, and he didn’t come in, but kicked his feet at the step, and said, instead of hello, “Did you mean it?”

He looked up at Ryan at this, almost glaring. “The part where you-”

“Yes,” Ryan said, instantly. “All of it.”

“Let me finish, ass,” Brendon said. “Do you still-”

“I still,” Ryan told him. “I still.”

Brendon looked down at Ryan’s doorstep. “Good,” he said. “Fine. Okay. Then you can take me out. On a date.”

“Wait, no,” Ryan said, and watched Brendon’s expression turn into something _awful_ for a split second before he said, “No, no, I just - are you and Sarah-”

He wasn’t going to do this to Brendon again; he wasn’t going to let Brendon do this to himself again. If there was one thing he’d learned from the mess they’d made, it was that this wouldn’t work if they were going to do it the same way.

“She’s,” Brendon said. “Staying at her mother’s.” He sighed, and suddenly looked much younger than twenty-nine. Ryan wanted to wrap his arms around him and love him, love him, love him. “Which doesn’t mean I’ve chosen you or anything.”

“No,” Ryan said nonsensically.

“But you could take me out on a date,” Brendon said.

Happiness - probably premature, probably presumptuous if Ryan’s track record was anything to go by - was fizzing up in his chest. “How does tonight sound?” he asked.

“...Good,” Brendon said, surprised-sounding.

He shouldn’t be. Ryan would be free every night if that was what it took.

*******

“Escape Room,” Brendon said, once the attendant had left them alone in the room. “Ross, you _dork_.”

“Scary basement escape room,” Ryan said. “Listen to how ominous.” The loud ticking clock ticked at them, reminding them they had thirty minutes left to go.

Brendon shook his head. “Dork,” he said. “Dork.”

"Let's escape this murderous villain's basement, shall we?" Ryan asked.

Ten minutes later, Brendon’s forehead was creased up. “I give up,” he said. “This is ridiculous. _Ryan._ ”

Ryan put the puzzle box back and lay back on the floor.

“That’s filthy,” Brendon said. “People got murdered here. Brains and blood on your nice shirt.” He lay down beside him, anyway.

“Remember when we watched that creepy ass puppet show in Berlin?” Ryan asked. “With the huge eyes and disproportionate limbs.”

“He was trying to _hypnotise_ us,” Brendon said.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t escape the room."

“It’s alright. We’re stupid,” Brendon said. Ryan giggled.

The attendant came in and asked: “Do you need any help?”

“Maybe a little,” Brendon admitted, which made Ryan laugh harder, breathless about it; Brendon looked at him, eyes crinkled.

They had pizza at home, later, and watched Moulin Rouge; Brendon fell asleep on Ryan’s shoulder, Ryan humming absently along to Your Song.

A typical Friday night, then.

*******

On the second date, they went to watch one of Z’s friends play at a bar. Her voice was smoky jazz, and she sang _half-touching, slippery with all the truths we know about each other_ , and Ryan risked a glance at Brendon, across the small table. He was staring right at Ryan. The bar suddenly felt quite too small and suffocating, and Ryan couldn’t quite seem to look away: the lock of Brendon’s hair falling over his eye, his wet, plush mouth.

“And that was Ayesha Ismail,” the emcee announced. “It’s karaoke time, folks.”

The moment was summarily broken, then, as a middle-aged man clambered onto the stage to deliver some - Celine, of course it was Celine. Brendon smiled at him, a quiet smile just for him, then turned away to whoop and clap in support.

“You up next?” Ryan asked.

“Nah,” Brendon said. “I can’t compete with this.” His knee was brushing -just - against Ryan’s under the table, possibly accidentally, more probably on purpose. Brendon knew how to get what he wanted.

Later, they sat out back, by the pool, and fiddled around with a couple of songs. Brendon looked up into the night sky and sang, _not mine, this feathered boy this shot to my wrist_. Ryan watched the line of his throat move with Ryan’s words, and he loved. He loved.

*******

On the third date, a more traditional night of movie (The Jungle Book, which Brendon had enthusiastically sung along with the bear to and complained about the lack of musical numbers) and dinner after, the waiter recognised Brendon. Ryan watched the familiar fish-mouth, wide-eyes. “Aren’t you-”

“Yeah,” Brendon said, smiling and practised and smooth about it. He’d gotten better at what Ryan secretly liked to call his Public Smile. “Hi, how’s it going?’

The waiter’s mouth opened and closed. “This is-” he stuttered, turning his gaze onto Ryan. Ryan smiled uncomfortably. People didn’t usually stop him anymore, not for a few years now; it had been too long, and he hardly looked the way he did anymore.

“Yeah, it’s,” Brendon agreed.

“Are you guys-”

“No, he’s not rejoining Panic as of yet, as far as I know,” Brendon said. “We’re just hanging out, catching up.”

“Oh,” the waiter said, clearly delighted. “ _Yay_. I mean, uh! Enjoy your meal.”

“We haven’t ordered,” Ryan said, but the waiter had scurried off, presumably to alert the rest of twitter and the internet of these Remarkable Developments.

Brendon giggled, a bit. “We might as well go get falafels.”

“Do you want falafels?” Ryan asked.

“I always want falafels,” Brendon said.

They went and walked for a bit. It was a clear, sort of humid night. Ryan thought about taking Brendon’s hand, but didn’t, of course. Brendon told Ryan about the new tech girl at the studio and how terrifyingly capable she was and it’d been her second day and how she’d told Zack off, and it was kind of amazing.

“I like her already,” Ryan said. “Ooh, falafel stall.”

They waited for the vendor to wrap the pita up. Brendon was humming absently to himself, watching it avidly. His fingers drummed on his thigh. Ryan had forgotten how interested he was, how animated, how full of life; Ryan had missed him so _much_.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “About the guy.”

“Ah,” Brendon said. “Oh. No, not really. It would’ve come out anyway. Do you?”

“No,” Ryan said. “I don’t know what they’ll say, though.”

“Oh, they’ll all say a bunch of things,” Brendon dismissed. “And it’ll all be hilarious and about 40% true, and they’ll drive themselves wild if we don’t respond and ignore it all, and that should be funny as hell. I can’t wait.”

 

“You can kiss me, you know,” Brendon said. “I’d even let you blow me tonight.” He was munching on his falafel like he hadn’t just - like Ryan’s mind wasn’t racing with images, memory and fantasy tripping over each other. He had had something to say, there was a good _reason_ -

“We did that all before, first,” he said, eventually, and was proud of his voice for being steady about it. “I wanna - let’s try going slow, this time.”

Brendon honest to God _pouted_. “You don’t really mean that, do you,” he said. “Ryan.”

He wrapped his fingers around Ryan’s left wrist, around _Dime_.

“Brendon,” Ryan said, helplessly.

“Of all the things that ruined us,” Brendon said, stepping in to murmur it, so the falafel guy wouldn’t hear, “I’m pretty sure sex wasn’t on the list.”

His lips brushed the shell of Ryan’s ear, and they were in public. They were in public.

“I mean. At least I think so,” Brendon amended, voice low. “It _was_ good, wasn’t it?” He cast his eyelashes low, looked at his thumb on the pulse of Ryan’s wrist.

“It was good,” Ryan said, strangled-sounding.

“Good,” Brendon agreed, smiling with teeth, because he knew he’d just gotten what he wanted.

*******

Z and Alex converged upon him all at once. Ryan had had his earbuds in, so when he looked up next and saw them sitting casually around him, he had a mild heart attack.

“Jesus,” he said. “ _Jesus_.”

“Nope, just us,” Z said cheerfully. “How are you, boy? The internet’s aflame and we still haven’t heard anything from the horse’s mouth.”

“There’s nothing much to tell,” Ryan said, and realised he was actually fucking blushing, because this was actually fucking high school.

Alex said: “Do we need to give him the talk?”

“Motherfuckers,” Ryan said. “No, no you don’t. God.”

“But I want to,” Z protested.

“Don’t scare him off!”

“If he’s scared off that easily,” Z said, but didn’t finish the sentence. She slapped her palms down onto her thighs, got up, and wandered to the kitchen.

“How are you doing?” Alex asked, softer.

“Good,” Ryan told him. “I think I’m good, Alex.”

Alex nodded, and unwrapped his stick of gum.

“You look happy,” he observed.

“I am happy,” Ryan said, and he couldn’t stop himself; his mouth widened into a stupid grin. Brendon had left early this morning, planting a sleepy kiss on Ryan’s cheekbone, and Ryan had gotten up two hours later and nearly slipped on his fucking socks in the hallway, and felt horribly annoyed for a minute before wrapping his arms around himself in the empty house and smiling, smiling like his mouth would break, completely ecstatic about the fact that Brendon was here to leave his socks lying around, and Ryan thought he’d never get to have that again.

“This place smells different,” Z said, suddenly. “More floral. Less cold takeout.” She poked her head out from inside the fridge. “This is full,” she said, accusingly. “There’s tomatoes. Fresh ones.”

Ryan made a face. “Brendon insisted,” he said.

“Ryan,” Z said. “Is he trying to take care of you?”

“Probably,” Ryan said.

“A lost cause,” Z said.

“I’m sure he’s aware,” Ryan agreed.

“And yet the fridge is stocked full,” she said, contemplatively. She and Alex exchanged a long look.

“So you don’t have to worry,” Ryan suggested.

Z smiled at him, eyes softer. “Oh, my darling,” she said. “We always worry.”

“We’ll still have the talk, you know,” Alex said. “He can’t avoid us forever.”

“He’s not _trying_ -”

“Love you, darling,” Z interrupted, and kissed him on the cheek before bustling out.

Alex kissed his other cheek, and grinned at him, and followed her.

Ryan had such weird friends, who probably loved him, but _fuck_ were they strange.

*******

The divorce papers came through a week later. Ryan watched Brendon pace all evening, restless with it.

“Come sit down,” he suggested.

“No,” Brendon said.

He watched him until he got sleepy, and woke up about an hour later with Brendon’s head on his thigh, his hand held hostage by both of Brendon’s, Brendon’s feet slung over the sofa’s arm.

 _I love you_ , Ryan thought, and watched Brendon breathe in and out, even and deep.

The next time he woke up, Brendon wasn’t there. He was frying what smelled like an omelette in the kitchen. Ryan went cautiously over.

“Hi,” Brendon said, too-brightly. “I made eggs.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. Brendon grinned at him and scraped some onto his plate.

This strange chirpy behaviour continued all throughout the next three days, Brendon too-polite and laughing too hard at Ryan’s half-attempts at jokes, and lapsing into silence and gazing out the window when he thought Ryan wasn’t paying attention. On the third day, Ryan said: “Al _right_.”

“What?” Brendon said, smiling practisedly.

“Don’t even - don’t,” Ryan said. “With your Public Smile.”

“My what?” Brendon said.

“Your fake smile.”

“...I thought I’d gotten better at it,” Brendon said, sounding a little thrown.

“Like I can’t tell,” Ryan scoffed.

Brendon did something weird, then; he walked over to where Ryan had been watching him from the bed, and kissed him fierce and unrelenting, Ryan gasping into it, lost, lost, lost. When they broke apart, Brendon said, “You can _tell_ ,” and didn’t explain what he meant. He looked happy, though; the way he hadn’t in days.

“You can talk about it,” Ryan said. “To me. If you want to. You should know that.”

Brendon didn’t say anything to that, but nodded. He settled on the bed next to Ryan, and scratched behind Dottie’s ear.

*******

The last of the unexpected visitors was Sarah.

She came when Brendon was doing a meet and greet in Kentucky, had probably asked Zack where he’d be. Ryan let her in quietly. She was wearing sunglasses, which she didn’t bother to take off, and a yellow dress.

“Nice place,” she said, probably lying.

“Thanks,” Ryan said, and waited.

She sat on a chair in the dining room. Ryan sat opposite her.

“What I wanted to say was-” she said, and stopped, her lips pursed into a hard line. Ryan looked around and realised she’d probably seen Brendon’s green sneakers, flung into a haphazard pile next to the fridge. Or Brendon’s glasses on the coffee table, atop Room, which Ryan had been reading.

“I was going to say,” she said, “many angry things.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I was going to yell at you, and cry, but I was going to make you cry first.”

Her lower lip trembled. She bit down hard on it.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said helplessly. It felt like that was the only thing he _could_ say.

She made an inarticulate noise. They sat in silence for long, long moments.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan repeated. “I never meant to-”

“Yeah, well,” Sarah said, and finally took off her shades. “Yeah, well.”

“He loves you,” Ryan said.

Sarah nodded. She knew that. They both knew that. Her boy. Ryan’s boy.

“Take care of him, Ryan.” Her eyes were brown, Ryan noticed; they were large with unshed tears.

Ryan nodded.

“Because I’m not going to be here to clean up your mess this time,” she said. “I never should’ve in the fir-” she cut herself off. “I’m leaving.”

“Sarah-” Ryan said. “Sarah.”

Sarah didn’t turn around. Which was probably for the best; Ryan had no idea what he would have said. Certainly nothing that would offer her any comfort.

*******

Ryan wondered if he should tell Brendon about Sarah’s visit, if it would upset him, when he was doing better, even if he still went quiet and stared off into space sometimes. He thought about just shutting up, but he wasn’t going to like, start hiding and lying and stuff again. He’d promised.

Brendon said, eventually, “Do you think loving someone because of who you could be when you’re with them is a good enough reason?”

“There are many reasons why people fall in love,” Ryan said, carefully.

“False,” Brendon contradicted. “There was no good reason to love you.”

“A certain suicidal trait,” Ryan quoted, sort of grinning.

“No, I think,” Brendon said, seriously. “There are a bunch of reasons to love someone. Their kindness. And smile. The way they make you want to try to be a better person.”

Ryan’s throat tightened. He’d never been kind. It wasn’t a trait he’d been born with, and one he’d never cultivated. And he and Brendon always seemed to bring out the worst in each other, usually.

But Brendon continued: “Being in love is completely different. You do it against reason. You do it in spite. And then you burst into flames.”

“What are you-” said Ryan. If Brendon was going to - if he was going to- “What are you saying.”

If Brendon was going to, then Ryan would let him go. This was what being in love meant.

“Or,” Brendon said. “Or. If you are wiser about it, and learn to love and to be in love the right way, instead of just - being stupid about it. If you try hard enough-”

“I’ll try,” Ryan said. “I’ll try if you will. I promise.”

“I know,” Brendon said. “That’s why I’m here. ‘cause that’s all we can do, I guess. Try. ‘cause I couldn’t have done anything else, because there’s never been a reason for how much I’ve always been fucked over you.” He beckoned to Dottie. Dottie actually came. She didn't even come when Ryan called. “Either that or it’s this dog I’m here for,” he said, and made baby noises at her. He smiled up at Ryan when Dottie panted happily at him, and Ryan wasn’t one for cliches, usually, but he’d missed this, the sun coming out.

“I was thinking we could repaint the guest room,” he said.

*******

“Oh,” Ryan said, remembering, and reached over to his drawer and fumbled around for a while. “Here.”

Brendon grabbed at it. “What’s it for?”

“Happy anniversary.”

“What anniversary?” Brendon demanded. “We’ve got a fuckload. Was it the first time we fucked, or fought, or-”

“Shut up,” Ryan said, pushing at his shoulder half-heartedly. “You texting me, last year.”

“You’re a _sap_ ,” Brendon said. His forehead creased. “I didn’t even remember-”

“It’s fine,” Ryan said. “I did.”

Brendon opened up the slim box. Inside lay a fake, shiny tiara, laden with pink and green emeralds.

“Thanks?” Brendon said, laughing.

“You were aiming for this, remember?” Ryan said. “But you won the bear instead.”

He thought about the first text, that rush of confused and happy _what is happening_. “I tried to - i don’t know. Give you space, at first. Not seem too-”

“Look how well that turned out,” Brendon observed, indicating his debauched self, swollen lips, bedhead, teeth marks that fit Ryan’s mouth on his shoulder. Ryan _loved_ him.

“I can’t - I don’t know how to promise anyone that I won’t hurt them,” he said, honestly. “But. Brendon. I think I’d rather die before hurting you again. I love you. I’ve never felt-”

Brendon’s eyes were wide and dark. He shuffled forwards on his knees, closer to Ryan.

“That has to count for something, right?” Brendon asked, and smiled, all sudden and bright. He put a firm hand on the back of Ryan’s neck, holding him close, and kissed him like he meant it.

When Ryan woke up the next morning, Brendon was there, leg draped over Ryan’s waist and hair tickling Ryan’s nose, so Ryan _knew_ he meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all so much for the nice things you had to say! do tell me if you liked this!
> 
> the line that z's friend sings is from a poem by my sister, who is infinitely more talented than i am.
> 
> this is technically finished, but i'm considering part 3: a review of panic's new album post-undertow. so. i mean. i'm not........done........


End file.
